


When Tomorrow Comes

by ancslove



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hand & Finger Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25501120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancslove/pseuds/ancslove
Summary: In the early summer of 1830, a mission on the streets of Paris goes slightly awry, leading to new discoveries.
Relationships: Bahorel/Enjolras (Les Misérables)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	When Tomorrow Comes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yosparky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yosparky/gifts).



Enjolras handed a pamphlet and a few coins to the man before him, a tall fellow in worker’s garb. He and Bahorel had spent the better part of the afternoon on the street corner, speaking and passing out pamphlets, coins, and bread. Discontent toward the Bourbon had been growing over the last few weeks, Paris’ mood heating with the summer sun. They needed to take advantage, stoke the embers. By his side, Bahorel, tall, broad, and conspicuous in his red waistcoat, stood watch as Enjolras finished with the last of the crowd. 

Suddenly, Bahorel nudged his arm. “Gendarmes coming, time to finish this.”

Enjolras followed Bahorel’s gaze, and his eyes widened as a troop of police turned a corner and marched toward them. Pressing a final pamphlet into another’s man’s hand, he urged his remaining audience to flee. 

“Halt! You lot there!” came the cry.

Around him, men and women scattered. Enjolras scooped up his supplies, and then Bahorel was tugging on his arm, pulling him away as the police approached. Enjolras followed blindly, trusting Bahorel to know the way to safety. Something whizzed past his ear, and he dimly registered the bullets aimed his way. More bullets flew by them, and Enjolras spared a moment of anger at the police, for endangering innocent passersby. Something slammed into his shoulder, but Enjolras couldn’t worry about that now. Through the winding, narrow streets they ran, Bahorel’s grip on Enjolras’ wrist never loosening. 

They turned down one side street, then another, until finally Bahorel pulled Enjolras through a doorway and into a café. Not one of Les Amis’ usual haunts, but a friendly establishment, nonetheless. Slipping further inside, Enjolras left Bahorel to keep watch and made his way toward the barman. A quiet word, and the man then nodded toward a back staircase. Enjolras thanked him quickly, then worked his way through the dim lighting and crowded tables to his friend.

“Any sign?”

“Not yet, thankfully,” Bahorel said. “I think they’re the next street over.”

“Good. Pierre says we can use the roof.”

Enjolras turned to indicate the stairway, but Bahorel frowned at him. “Wait. You’re bleeding.”

“We can fix that once we’re safe.”

* * *

On the roof, Enjolras checked his bag of supplies while Bahorel peered over the edge. His shoulder ached dully, but he could ignore it for now. Bahorel returned, smiling. 

“I think they’re about to give up for the night. It’s safe to make our way back. Here, give me the bag.”

Enjolras complied without a fuss, too tired to argue. Then they were stealing their way over the rooftops, doubling back as the police marched back toward the heart of the city.

Bahorel’s apartment was closest, and by the time they arrived, the sun setting behind them, Enjolras’ shoulder was starting to throb. Gratefully, he slipped off his coat, once inside, and hung it on the rack by the door. His cravat soon followed. Catching his breath, he took a moment to look around the room, noting the sparse accommodations. Apparently, Bahorel saved his stylistic flair for his wardrobe, rather than his lodgings. Bahorel locked the door and then dropped the bag onto the floor with a booming laugh. 

“I haven’t had that much excitement in a long while! We should do this more often.”

“You have strange tastes, my friend,” Enjolras replied. He was trying to unbutton his waistcoat, but, now the danger had passed, his fingers weren’t quite cooperating. 

Bahorel sobered quickly. “Let me help you.”

Bahorel’s hands took over the task, fingers long and dexterous under Enjolras’ gaze. For such big hands, they were remarkably agile, Enjolras thought. Mentally shaking himself, he forced his attention to the events they had just escaped. Perhaps fleeing the scene so precipitously had been a strategic mistake. They may have been able to talk their way out. But the gendarmes had been quick to disperse any large gatherings lately, and it was best to avoid arrest or starting a riot. 

“Remind me to tell everyone to lay low for a few days.”

“Of course, chief. Now, let’s see the damage.”

Bahorel slid Enjolras’ waistcoat off and then helped him with his shirt. Firm fingers found and prodded the wound above Enjolras’ right shoulderblade. 

“It’s fairly nasty, but I don’t see the bullet. Must’ve winged you as we ran. Here, hold this while I grab the medical gear.” 

Bahorel pressed Enjolras’ shirt against the wound, and then guided Enjolras’ left hand into position to hold the fabric in place. 

Soon Bahorel was back, toting a bundle of muslin cloths and a basin. He guided Enjolras to the small kitchen area and pushed him toward a chair. 

“Sit here while I find some wine.”

Through half-lidded eyes, Enjolras watched Bahorel rummage through his cupboards until he came up with a bottle of wine. Bahorel splashed a good amount into the basin and dipped a piece of muslin. 

“This may burn a little.”

Gritting his teeth, Enjolras held onto the edge of the table as Bahorel pressed the wine-soaked cloth to the wound. 

“Apologies, my friend. Just one more.”

Another searing burn as Bahorel cleaned the wound left Enjolras gasping in pain. Then it was over, and cool, fresh cloths were wrapped around his shoulder. Enjolras slumped over the table, exhausted. 

“All finished now. Promise you’ll have Combeferre check it tomorrow, though. My stash is more suited to fixing up souvenirs from brawls and riots, not gunshot.”

Eyes closed, Enjolras nodded against the table, and heard Bahorel’s low chuckle. 

“Come on, you need rest.”

Enjolras allowed Bahorel to pull him to his feet. They made their way to the bedroom on only slightly unsteady feet. The room spun as Bahorel deposited him on the bed and helped him remove his trousers. When it righted itself, Enjolras found himself wearing a clean nightshirt, several sizes too large. Enjolras pushed himself up, but Bahorel was quickly in front of him, one hand on his good shoulder, holding him down.

“Be a good patient, now. Don’t make me report to Combeferre. It’s been a long day, and since I don’t have any laudanum, it’s best you sleep a bit. While you nap, I'll scrounge us some food. You haven't eaten since breakfast.”

“I don’t take laudanum anyway,” Enjolras managed. But he complied, and felt a warm pleasure when Bahorel smiled in return. Bahorel’s hand moved to smooth the hair from Enjolras’ face, fingers lingering against his cheek, and Enjolras almost unconsciously leaned into the touch. When Bahorel’s thumb rubbed against the bone of his cheek, Enjolras’ eyes drifted shut. The last thing he felt, before unconsciousness took him, was warm lips brushing his forehead.

* * *

The next evening saw Enjolras back at his own desk. At his friends’ bequest, he’d stayed indoors all day, lying low, and he found himself chafing at the involuntary confinement, even though he’d been known to stay at work in his rooms for days at a time. But now, the events of the previous day replayed in his head, wreaking havoc on his focus. Meeting and speaking with the people, then the gendarmes’ arrival and their hurried escape, and Bahorel’s hands. Pulling him, guiding him, and then tending to him. 

He scrubbed his left hand through his hair, trying to force himself to concentrate on the words before him, and not on the persistent sting and pull of his shoulder. In only his shirtsleeves, he could feel the bandages catch and the wound protest with every movement. Combeferre had ordered him to leave the wound alone and let it heal. Combeferre clearly overestimated him. A familiar knock at his front door broke through Enjolras’ distraction. Firm, triple thump, followed by the bellow of his name.

Bahorel entered without waiting for his response, and Enjolras pushed himself to his feet. 

“Come eat! I bring bread and cheese, plus sweets, since Courfeyrac ordered me to feed you again.”

Enjolras smiled as he moved to greet his friend. Bahorel brandished a sack of food and caught a stray pastry as it spilled. They settled on the sofa with Bahorel’s dinner offering and an only slightly old pot of coffee. 

“How’s the wound? Not too much of a hindrance, I trust.”

“Thankfully, it doesn’t affect my movements too much. It should heal well, with only a scar.”

“Permanently mar your marble skin? I should hunt the gendarmes down for such an offense.”

Bahorel’s smile promised mischief, but his eyes regarded Enjolras solemnly. Enjolras’ stomach tightened when Bahorel’s hand came up to cup his cheek. Enjolras’ own hand rose to cover Bahorel’s and give a quick squeeze. Their gazes held a moment longer, then broke by mutual accord. Turning back, Bahorel bit off a hunk of bread, chewing ferociously.

“Paris was quieter today,” Bahorel said. “Seeing a troop of police run through the streets shooting makes people wary.”

Enjolras nodded absently. He could still feel Bahorel’s palm, rough and calloused but so gentle, warming his skin, though the physical moment had passed. They ate and talked about upcoming plans, until finally Bahorel glanced at his watch.

“I should take my leave. But before I do, let me check your bandages. We can’t afford you getting an infection.”

* * *

Supplies in hand, they made their way back to Enjolras’ bedroom, and with Enjolras’ assent, Bahorel reached to remove his shirt. He eased the garment over Enjolras’ head, and then set about unwrapping the cloth rags and replacing them with fresh ones. His back safely turned as Bahorel worked, Enjolras closed his eyes and simply allowed himself to focus on the feel of Bahorel’s hands on his bare skin. So rarely did he permit himself any indulgence, but Bahorel’s fingers were firm and deft and, above all, caring. 

Bahorel fixed one final knot and then stepped away. At the loss of his touch, Enjolras bit back an undignified protest. He turned and caught one large hand.

“Thank you.”

When Bahorel’s other hand brushed through his hair, Enjolras didn’t hesitate. Before he could overthink, he brought their lips together, and the world froze around them.

Bahorel’s lips were warm and surprisingly soft against his own. Their mouths moved together fiercely, and Enjolras moaned, his own lips parting. The tongue sweeping inside was also a surprise, but a pleasant one. Still clutching Bahorel’s hand, Enjolras leaned forward, chasing Bahorel’s taste, feeling the hard body, bulky and appealingly solid, flush against his own. He felt the hand in his hair tighten, pulling him closer.

Finally, they parted, breaths sounding loudly in each other’s ears. Bahorel’s eyes were fixed on his, wide and soft, with a hint of amusement.

“I’ve imagined that for over a year, but never dared dream that you might, too.”

Squeezing the hand he still held, Enjolras smiled. “Stay the night?”

"For as long as you wish." 

Another kiss, languorous and sweet. Enjolras settled down in Bahorel's arms, eyes closing. True, he'd never imagined needing or wanting something like this. But the world sat on the brink of change. A new dawn would soon rise over Paris, and Enjolras too could enjoy all its promise.


End file.
